


to each other

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Lingerie, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 05:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Acts of romance.





	to each other

**Author's Note:**

> Feb 2019 Daily Deviant fill, for the prompts: candles, chocolate, kissing, love. Originally posted [here](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/daily_deviant/742258.html#cutid1).

Pansy wakes up to the first gift. 

It’s beside their bed, the slim box placed atop the dresser, wrapped seamlessly in a deep, elegant red. It catches her eye immediately, her interest perked even in her half-asleep state, and she rolls across the mattress until she’s able to reach for it. Sits up and lets the sheets pool around her waist as she pulls the box into her lap. 

Hermione is already gone for the day. Long gone, Pansy thinks. Ministry hours are often ridiculous, she knows, and while she’d been annoyed to discover Hermione’s work schedule for Valentine’s Day, the gift in her hands softens the blow. 

She’s impatient as she unwraps it, her nails slicing through the opening easily. Paper is pulled away, the wrapping discarded to the side as a black box is revealed, the name of a brand Pansy knows well engraved on the lid. 

An eyebrow arches, the first hint of excitement swarming her stomach. Pansy lifts the box, eager. Her mouth dropping open just slightly as she sees what’s inside. 

The set is beautiful. Delicate lace coloured a deep, dark crimson, the colour perfect for her complexion. She reaches for it, is carful as she pulls the bralette from its box, the matching knickers. Runs the pads of her fingers along the intricate detail. 

There’s a note there, too. A torn bit of parchment covered in Hermione’s scrawl. The words make Pansy twitch with anticipation. 

_For later._

[]

Later is a long way away, and Pansy fills her time with luxury. With self-indulgence. 

 _The pleasure of being your own boss_ , she thinks as she sinks into a bath, the water warm and soothing and smelling of something faintly floral. She exhales slowly, shuts her eyes and leans against the tub’s edge, thoughts of expensive lingerie and beautiful girlfriends filling her mind. 

She could have some fun of her own, she thinks, her hands running along her abdomen, the top of her thighs. She has the time. But it wouldn’t be as rewarding; might ruin the fun of the  _wait_. 

She decides against it. Thinks something about lessons and self-restraint. About rewards and gratification. 

[]

By the time Hermione does walk through their apartment door, the horizon has already darkened, and Pansy is done with waiting. She stands near the entrance, her frame adorned in nothing but the lingerie Hermione had gifted her and a dark, silken robe that falls to her mid-thigh. 

Hermione stops when she sees her, her gaze hot as it trails across the curves of Pansy’s body. Pansy can feel it, knows that Hermione is eyeing the way the fabric clings to her frame, the way her outfit leaves little to the imagination. She shifts, lets the robe fall open on purpose. Smirks when she sees desire colour Hermione’s feature, when she catches the tip of a tongue peeking out to swipe at her bottom lip. 

She’s on her almost immediately after the door is shut, lips warm and determined as they move against Pansy’s, the kiss long and everything but chaste. 

“I got your chocolates,” Hermione says when they pull apart, almost out of breath. One hand rests on the opening of Pansy’s robe, her fingers inching beneath the fabric and brushing across soft, smooth skin. “And the flowers.”

Pansy hums, looks in the direction of their kitchen. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, gaze shifting back towards Hermione, “but I’ve been waiting.”

 _And you know I’m impatient,_  goes unsaid.

Hermione smiles, the curve of her mouth a tease. She leans forward, presses her lips to Pansy’s once more, the kiss softer this time. 

“Dinner can wait.”  

[]

Pansy had readied the bedroom. Had charmed every candle they owned to hover near the bed, the soft light a romantic touch. Hermione eyes the effort, impressed, but it’s only given a moment of attention before hands are tugging at clothes, grabbing at skin. 

It’s as if Hermione kisses every inch of her body before she gives Pansy what she wants. Skilled fingers trace the lines of her lingerie, the touch followed by the wet press of a mouth, the tip of a tongue, until finally,  _finally,_  fingers sink deep into Pansy’s cunt: only one at first, Hermione’s touch intentionally teasing. Pansy grinds back against her, desperation growing as a second is added.

It’s not enough. Not enough to satisfy her, not enough to get her off. She’s wet and wanting and has been waiting too long already. “Come on,” she says—not  _please_ , not any type of pretty beg. Just that: two words full of desire and impatience. A demand for  _more_. 

Hermione gives it to her. The harness she wears is one of Pansy’s favourites, the toy long and thick. Pansy shifts in anticipation, a low groan escaping her mouth as Hermione sinks into her: slow and steady, grip tight where her fingers dig into the flesh of Pansy’s thighs.

Hermione smiles, only softly. Leans down to kiss her mouth, her cheek. Says, “You really have been waiting all day, haven’t you?” 

The words are whispered against her ear, and Pansy loves this. Loves when she does this. Even now, after years spent together, there is still something inexplicably attractive about hearing Hermione talk about sex: about the dip in tone, the way the words come out breathy and eager.

“Yes,” Pansy says, because it’s true. Because it’s the answer Hermione wants. Because she knows the other woman loves being told that she’s doing good, that she’s wanted, that’s she’s  _right_. 

Hermione rocks her hips forward, mouth capturing Pansy’s for another kiss, this one harsher, almost sloppy. All teeth and tongue. Pansy moans, a soft, breathy little thing, and repeats the word  _yes_  once, twice, three times. Her body pressing back against Hermione’s with every thrust, her hands inching their way up Hermione’s back and curling at the nape of her neck, keeping her close. In place.

It’s a practiced art. Hermione knows just how to touch her, knows how to bring her to the edge only to let her cool off: the act a special type of torture. Most of the time, Pansy likes it. She often enjoys the slow, careful touches. Can appreciate the effort that goes into it; how much Hermione must know her body to edge her that well. 

Tonight, though, she can only take so much. 

Hermione rocks against her in a steady rhythm, just short of being truly gratifying, and Pansy tightens her grip on Hermione’s neck. Nails dig into the nape, Pansy’s touch pulling her forward, so her mouth moves against Hermione’s as she talks. 

 _“Fuck me,”_  she says.

And so Hermione does. 

[]

It’s not until later, not until they’re sated, not until after they’ve eaten and showered and crawled back into bed, that Pansy remembers to say, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

It’s mumbled against Hermione’s shoulders, punctuated with a gentle kiss against the skin. She feels Hermione laugh, soft and breathy, the both of them already half asleep when Hermione shifts in her arms and says it back. 


End file.
